Say My Name

What do you like to be called?

With a bit of a long, unique name, I get that question often. While I adore being named after my maternal grandmother, I have never liked the attention and small talk that it always seemed to inevitably draw.  

In high school and college, teachers would often pause to ask if they were pronouncing it correctly. Do you go by that? You don’t hear that every day. Are you French? Doesn’t quite match the last name! As someone who always wanted to fly under the radar as much as possible, this was not ideal. 

Antoinette. Toni. Internet (hi my old Baby Beasts). Mama. Mom lately. Hun. Boo. Bruh. I’m not picky. I'm different things to different people. If you could stay away from Mam, I’d appreciate it – but a name is just a name.  

Or is it? 

What I find more interesting about my interesting name given at birth is the reason why I don’t care if I am called it. (Because I do, in fact, prefer Antoinette) Here it is: I don’t want to make anyone feel uncomfortable. Call me whatever you like!  I don’t want to inconvenience anyone. Whatever you can remember is fine! I don’t want extra attention or to seem demanding. Smiles instead of correcting mispronunciations. 

Why would I ever cause an awkward moment just to be called my name? I am cringing a little bit as I write this. But, seriously. No worries, no problem – except in my new season of grown ass womanhood – it is kind of a problem or at least indictive of a larger one.

My grandmother once told me that there is nothing worse than the feeling a woman gets when she is standing on the corner, waiting to cross the street. I was probably in my twenties and this statement jolted me. Wait. How did she know? She felt this, too? I thought this was just my shyness, my own awkwardness – never did I think this was a quiet shared experience. It’s lovely when things aren’t all in your head. 

That street corner can feel like a stage of sorts. Some days, it’s more distinct than others. In that very moment, you wait in plain sight for everyone to see. And the air is filled with lingering invisible judgements. It’s just a feeling. IYKYK. 

Are you wearing enough clothes? Are you fat? Are you skinny but not that pretty? Are you so skinny that it makes your face look old? Are you actually old? Is it going to take you forever to cross the street? Do you look too young to have those kids straggling behind you? What kind of mother lets them straggle behind them and doesn’t hold their hand? What kind of shoes are those? Really, lady? Maybe if you were 18. Walk a little slower, 18-year-old. Take your time. Wait. How old is she?

Then, the actual crossing.

Will you get a friendly dad-like wave of encouragement? Will you get a nod with a satisfying sneer? Will you get a sneer as if you yourself painted the crosswalk to slow this man’s day down? Will your thighs rub each other as you try to hustle across, not wanting to inconvenience anyone? Will you stride slowly, enjoying the sun, pissing someone off. Be sure to smile and look friendly as you cross the stage. But not too friendly. Will that stare follow you down a side street? Isn’t that the attention you were looking for when you decided to cross the street in shorts on a summer afternoon? 

I could never articulate why it was so uncomfortable to me. Shy person problem. But as my grandmother casually confirmed, it’s a woman's problem. I do not think men stand on the curb, feeling the weight of silent noise heavy against the breeze of passing cars. 

In those moments on the curb, whether literally or when a college professor asked what I liked to be called, I wanted to disappear. It’s interesting now at 42 , realizing I want to be called my name and perhaps throw out some swears as I cross the street – there is likely an expectation and pressure to, in fact, disappear. Novelist Ayelet Waldman was once quoted after turning 50 as “I just want to walk down the street and have someone notice that I exist.” She was also talking about being recognized as a relevant professional and human as she aged. And while I am on the newer side of mature womanhood, it’s something that I’ve been thinking about since turning 40.

There are these messages and rules perpetuated by what society shells as priorities. When you are younger and vulnerable, you can be thrown under the microscope – a rite of passage that should make us feel grateful even. But when you tire from bending and accommodating and keeping everyone comfortable – you’re not an interesting study anymore or even worthy of the unwanted criticisms. It’s amazingly freeing but also a tad infuriating. I’m finally ready to strut off the curb and roar – but is anyone listening? 

I’d like to think this essay column and site answers this question with a hell yes. So, for those who are listening, please take note.

My name is Antoinette Hemphill and yes, I go by Antoinette. I am also a proud Donovan but wanted to share my name with my husband and children. I am a writer and my talent grows with every gray hair and perimenopausal pound. I am stepping off the curb. I’m no longer sucking it in or sucking it up.  I’m crossing the street as slowly or quickly as I like, regardless of whether I am judged by silent noise or disappear into the background. And when I make it to the other side, you can say my name.

Are you ready to step off the curb? We are listening and always accepting ideas or submissions for this column. Send us an email with your idea.